


Ignition

by Argyle



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Classic Cars, Debauched Driving, Gloves, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-07
Updated: 2011-10-07
Packaged: 2017-10-24 09:45:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"These things are rare for a reason. You do realize they just slapped a pseudo-Ferrari body on Fiat components? Style over substance." Charles gives Erik's knee an encouraging pat. "So just once round the block, yeah?"</i></p><p>Or: Erik and Charles take another drive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ignition

**Author's Note:**

> Companion piece to [Traction](http://archiveofourown.org/works/258451).

The only other time Erik has seen a Cisitalia 202 Gran Sport on the road was in Antwerp, four years ago, when he sent it -- along with one Heinrich Fuchs, former scientific advisor to Klaus Schmidt -- headlong into the Scheldt. But even before Erik had his way with it, the car was in poor shape. The chassis was rusting, and nicks and dents marked the body from bonnet to rear bumper, as though Fuchs didn't give a damn for possessing so fine a vehicle. Erik was glad enough to put them both out of commission.

Charles' Cisitalia, on the other hand, is near-mint.

It's also the only red car in the garage. It sits parked at the back like a cherry waiting to be picked.

And apparently, it doesn't run. Erik twists his hand for the third time, urging the engine to turn over.

"Actually, there's a trick to it," says Charles, leaning back in the passenger seat. He has a ridiculous tartan scarf knotted round his neck, but his collar is open, leaving a single, pale sliver of flesh open to the October air. Only in true deference to the season has he traded his knit gloves for leather ones -- soft, like kid -- and so slightly, beneath the scent of oil and polish that permeates the car, Erik can smell the leather, warmed by Charles' hands.

A subtle shudder passes through Erik's frame. He foolishly hopes Charles hasn't noticed, and goes so far as to play it off as anticipation for the drive, smiling grimly and cocking a brow. "Yes? Old Xavier family secret? I'm sure this will be interesting."

"You can do it even without the key. Look. It'd be easier if I just showed you."

"You're one double short of bloody drunk, Charles," Erik says, impatiently clenching the wheel. "Don't tell me all it takes to drop your moral judgment to nothing is a dose of single malt."

"Only the best single malt," Charles drawls. "But that isn't all, as you're well aware. Here, let me..." He sucks in a breath, then he raises two fingers to his temple, and suddenly, Erik _knows_. He pumps the gas pedal several times in short succession, then steps on the clutch. One more move of his hand and the engine pulses on. The whole car trembles with contained energy: it's a thing to admire. Something powerful. Kindred.

Despite himself, Erik grins.

Charles does too. "What did I say? Simple."

"Anything else I should know before we take it out?"

"You have to shift it straight from second to fourth. Unless you want to get stuck in third."

Erik pointedly doesn't want to get stuck in third. "And?"

"And when it goes over seventy-five, it usually backfires," says Charles, "with enough kick to jostle the steering column. And the rear axle."

"Okay," says Erik.

"These things are rare for a reason. You do realize they just slapped a pseudo-Ferrari body on Fiat components? Style over substance." Charles gives Erik's knee an encouraging pat. "So just once round the block, yeah?"

*

They make it most of ten miles.

Then the car groans and sputters off. Erik turns to Charles. "Have any other tricks up your sleeve?"

"Not as such."

Fortunately, Erik does. He puts the car in neutral and gets them back on their way by the grace of his power alone. In the meantime, Charles manages to wriggle halfway onto Erik's lap, and proceeds to work too-deft fingers past the hem of Erik's shirt, and then up, splaying them wide against his chest. Erik kisses him soundly and winds his hands around Charles' back to knead at his arse.

But it's really too cramped a space for Erik's liking. There certainly isn't enough room to have Charles as he wants him, which is like this: still above, but straddling Erik's hips and impaling himself on Erik's cock. Erik would rock into him, so slowly, just as the fine muscles in Charles' thighs went taut with the effort of raising and lowering his own weight, and Charles would let out a groan--

Charles pulls back, puffing out a little laugh. Erik can feel how hard he is through both layers of their trousers; just as hard as Erik. Erik lowers his mouth to Charles' throat, licking a path downwards. But damnably, Charles perseveres: "Delightful as the notion is, I think you'd best save it until we're back in my room."

"And why would that be?" Erik asks, his lips still hovering close.

"There are approximately fifteen white-tailed deer crossing the road not twenty metres ahead, and I've never much cared for venison."

 _Shit_. Erik slams down on the brake, gripping Charles' waist so he doesn't go careening through the windscreen. To hell with Charles' better judgement: since when had Erik allowed another man to disrupt his own? He was never so reckless -- or not without reason.

Charles appears to catch the thought. He smiles. "My fault entirely."

*

Twenty minutes later, the Cisitalia grinds to a halt at the head the driveway, kicking gravel onto the grass. Erik all but bodily drags Charles up the staircase (Charles' scarf loops off and hits the landing) and down the hall (Erik's jacket puddles to the floor) to Charles' room. Charles winds his fingers round Erik's belt before they've made it all the way inside, and Erik's hands are in Charles' hair, cradling the back of his head to hungrily draw him up for a kiss.

"If I'd known European sports cars provoked such a response in you," Charles pants, shrugging out of his own coat, "I'd've persuaded the CIA to lend us an Allard. Who knows. We might've even recruited more mutants that way."

"Shut up," says Erik. Then he does the job himself. Charles still tastes smoky from the scotch he'd been drinking, and for a moment, Erik wonders whether Charles has a decanter up here -- just something to take the edge off.

Charles' response is immediate: //Later, later,// coupled with a moan that Erik _feels_ more than he hears, the low, pleased vibration rising from Charles' throat and reaching Erik's mouth as Erik palms Charles' cock through his trousers. It's fantastic.

"Bed. Now," Charles says happily, finishing the job on his shirt. Then he seems to realize he still has gloves on. He begins to work at the button on his wrist, but Erik closes a hand over it. Charles grins. "Leave them on tonight, shall I? You're full of surprises."

Erik knows this is a game Charles plays with himself. It's hardly amusing, but Erik is too aroused to care, so he tightens his grip on Charles' shoulders, nips at his collarbone, until Charles' thoughts hit his own in a billow of finely-spun heat, clear of anything but _this_.

A few more moments, and they're both naked, holding close, flush, chest to chest.

Charles falls back on the mattress as Erik uses his power to retrieve the tube of lubricant from the bedside table. One quick motion, and the cap is off. Erik works the lube between his palms before spreading it on his fingers and slicking himself, then shifts Charles' thighs apart to begin readying him, first gently teasing round his hole, which coaxes a hissed, "Come _on_ , damn you," from Charles, and then pushing in a finger. And another, scissoring, stretching.

Erik loves this-- the way Charles' eyes close and his mouth wrenches into a pleasure-pained grimace; Charles' breath, coming in shallow, quick puffs; Charles' hand on Erik's arm, goading him further, guiding him.

He loves Charles' brittle, "Oh, Erik," as he enters him with one slow roll of his hips.

And then they're moving, Erik's hands bracketed to either side of Charles' head, Charles' legs hoisted on Erik's shoulders, and Charles shifting with him, taking him and giving everything back. Charles pushes the hair back from Erik's temple, the leather soft on Erik's sweat-beaded skin.

Charles draws his hand back and runs his tongue over a gloved finger. //Oh.//

"Let me," Erik says. He shifts deeper, and gasping, Charles reaches up to touch Erik's lips. Erik takes two fingers in. As gently as he's able, he grazes his teeth over over them, then strokes his tongue from tip to second knuckle; he tastes himself and Charles and the salty, earthen flavor of the leather.

//Erik-- I can't--// Charles pulls back and takes his cock in his fist, stroking in time to Erik's thrusts.

After that, it's only a matter of time. Charles comes with a groan. The pleasure of it ekes out of him, lapping against Erik's mind in low, concentric ripples, and Erik shudders, his cock pulsing deep within Charles.

It's an effort to not collapse right there. But somehow Erik manages to ease out, setting Charles' legs down as he rolls off to the side. Charles stares down at his damp, stained gloves, scrunching his nose with a, "Yech," as he peels them off and tosses them off the side of the bed. "I've had those for years. What a way to go out, hmm?"

"Huh," Erik agrees, blinking into the half-light.

"Huh?" Charles echoes, but affably. He tucks himself into Erik's shoulder, his head against Erik's chest. "That's the best you can do?"

"Under the circumstances, I think that puts it surprisingly well." Erik reaches a up to run a hand through Charles sweat-tousled hair. If he was honest, Charles didn't look any less presentable now than when he was wearing that damned scarf. Certainly more beautiful.

Charles squirms, letting out a chuckle. "Don't think I didn't hear that."

"You should know to stay out of my head. You may not like what you find."

"Oh, I like it."

"Then by all means--" Erik pictures Charles' lips against his, Charles' tongue pushing, tasting every corner of Erik's mouth.

Charles smiles. He presses a sweet, quick kiss to Erik's chin. "Mm. You do at times overestimate my stamina. It's a wonder we weren't incinerated while out driving this time. Honestly, I've no idea what you see in those antiques."

Erik sees this: a means of escape. But he says, "Danger has its appeal."

"You're mad," Charles sighs. "But I suppose, so are we all."

Erik can't argue with him. Doesn't want to. Couldn't, in truth. As if in sympathy for Charles' exhaustion, his own limbs grow heavy and drag him into sleep. His last wakeful thought is of the road, but his dreams offer no map.


End file.
